Snowstorm
by complicatedness
Summary: In the twenty-five days before Christmas Break, Draco Malfoy does the unthinkable: he falls in love. Written for the DG Forum's 2012 Holiday Gift Fic Exchange.


_Nothing belongs to this cotton-headed ninny muggins._

Written as a gift for Kim, as part of the DG Forum's Holiday Gift Fic Exchange! Her prompt: red, snow, question. Happy New Year!

**Snowstorm**

As tired as he was—very—Draco Malfoy could not bring himself to sleep. Or even to close his eyes. He knew better. Oh yes. He knew too well that the moment he did, _she_'d be there, crouched in the darkness behind his eyelids, ready to ambush his dreams. Just as she had been for the last few nights. More than just a few nights actually. Twenty four to be exact. Draco had been counting.

And trying to convince himself that the number meant nothing. That she meant nothing. This was nothing. And he'd prove it. Today. Somehow.

But until then, he would lay awake, never giving up the hope that all memory of the last three weeks would be erased from his mind.

Really, though, none of this would even be necessary if he had just stayed inside that first morning. Instead, he had abandoned the warmth of the castle (and Pansy's embrace) to wander the frozen grounds, finally ending up where he started…standing at the front entrance, staring numbly at the thick blanket of snow that covered the stone steps.

1.

She first appeared to him there, floating up, it seemed, from the snow itself, an angel in tattered black Hogwarts robes. But to his growing horror (or was it awe?) Draco saw that this was no angel. Even with snowflakes clinging to her long eyelashes and the many more little specks, white against the red of her hair, there was no denying the awful truth of her identity—so obvious to him that it might as well have been stamped across her forehead. Weasley.

He opened his mouth to say something—belittling and bigoted, of course —when his eyes met hers. Brown eyes he'd never noticed before. Brown eyes that seemed dull without the spark of contempt that usually lit them, a deep loathing she reserved especially for him.

It had begun then (Draco was sure of it now). He suspected nothing that first night when he laid back onto his Slytherin green Egyptian cotton sheets, kicking off his Italian loafers, weighed down by the sinking feeling of the day's failure. Fixing a Vanishing Cabinet was a hell of a lot harder than Draco would ever care to admit. Already, he could see Blaise's amused smirk in his mind. That golden-eyed bastard.

He'd been distracted, truthfully…by another pair of eyes. Draco pulled at the curtains hanging around his four poster bed, a little too forcefully, tearing them down.

"Filthy little blood traitor." he said repeatedly under his breath, the venom in his words fading from his voice. Confused, Draco repaired the curtains and wrenched them shut, shoving a pillow over his head as he tried to fall asleep.

2.

He'd forgotten all about the Weasley girl by breakfast. That is, until, he lifted his head. She sat directly in his line of vision, smiling senselessly as that Mudblood Thomas sank into the seat by her sideat the Gryffindor table. Her boyfriend, Draco remembered Pansy telling him once. He found it suddenly difficult to concentrate on his toast. Or anything, really.

3.

Just as he promised himself never to think of her again, Draco began to see her everywhere. Walking past the Slytherin table at lunch. Sitting with that Mudblood Creevey in the courtyard. Brushing past him in the halls on the way to class.

4.

Surely, he never saw this much of her normally…right?

5.

And surely, he never gave her this much thought before. Right? The question burned in his throat like Firewhiskey. Ignoring both his dinner and whatever Pansy was saying, Draco left the Great Hall without a word.

6.

He found himself standing before a blank stretch of wall in an empty corridor on the seven floor during his free period. And in moments, staring at a Vanishing Cabinet he told himself he'd be able to fix.

It became more obvious with every passing day that he had been wrong. A fact, Blaise had known since the first of September. Draco wondered why he was ever friends with the golden-eyed bastard.

7.

There was no escaping her in the Great Hall, but Draco was determined not to look at her, staring instead at the shepherd's pie on his plate. The idea that he would even want to look at her made him want to take a scalding hot bath. Whatever the hell her name was anyway. He didn't know.

8.

Actually he did. Ginny. Her name was Ginny.

9.

His mother always had a way of making him feel guilty for things he hadn't done. Like kill Albus Dumbledore, for example. The letter Draco received from her at breakfast was enough to strengthen his efforts—so effectively, in fact, that he spent his lunchtime in the library researching magical furniture. A fact that he regretted half an hour later as he went on to bang his head against his work table.

"My life can't get any worse." Draco muttered, one side of his face pressed against the wooden surface. He spoke too soon.

Ginny Weasley stood just some twenty feet away, her tattered black Hogwarts robes and faded grey jumper forgotten in the warmth of the library. Draco paled at the sight of her patched pleated skirt, a little too short, and her wrinkled oxford shirt, a little too tight.

Once—just-just this once, he'd allow himself to look.

She didn't glance up from the book open in her hands, and Draco frowned, unable to find any words to describe her in this moment. Filthy blood traitor? Muggle loving scum? The very pillars of his vocabulary, yes, but his stomach twisted unpleasantly at the thought of using any of them to define her.

The girl brushed a thick strand of scarlet locks out of her face, biting her lip as she read. Beautiful—it was the first word that came to mind. A word, Draco realized with a sense of alarm that made him jump in his seat, a word that was completely accurate.

This could only mean one thing, Draco decided, shoving his books into his bag, rushing out of the library so quickly he might've Apparated. He was demented.

10.

It explained everything. Draco awoke the next morning, unable to understand why he hadn't seen it sooner. His _slight_ attraction to the Weasley girl was clearly a sign of his lunacy. Temporary a quiet, stress-free Christmas holiday couldn't remedy.

_Or not._

Draco had only meant to glance in the general direction of the Gryffindor table—not spend his entire breakfast staring at her instead of the plate of eggs Pansy had lovingly fixed for him. A horrible thought struck him.

What if this wasn't just some trick of the mind? His heart always did seem to beat faster in his chest whenever she was around, his hands inexplicably clammy, his face feverishly flushed. And now that Draco thought about it…his stomach always felt strange….as though butterflies—no, no, as though there was a snowstorm raging within him, filling his eardrums with the sound of a howling wind only he could hear, filling his lungs with a blast of cold that left the breath hitched in his throat, filling his heart with an horrible fear, a fear he imagined that could only be felt by one trapped in a snowstorm, helpless to the flurry of snow and—and what if this was something quite serious indeed?

A terrible disease of some sort? Draco didn't know if it would be best to see Madame Pomfrey. He could already imagine the look on her face if he tried to explain any of this. And besides, Draco didn't know if he wanted to know. But he was sure of one thing: this was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

11.

As much as he tried to deny it, this, her, he couldn't. Draco couldn't deny her. Or the fact that he thought of her—and that he _liked_ to think of her. He couldn't deny either that he couldn't stop. And that he didn't really want to.

12.

He'd have to try though, of course. Fixing a Vanishing Cabinet was hard enough without Ginny Weasley. Draco had taken care to eat proper meals and get adequate rest, but it was obvious it was going to take more that to right this wrong.

_So wrong._

Why was it so hard to forget the snowflakes clinging to her long eyelashes and the many more little specks, white against the red of her hair? It wasn't like he_liked_ her or anything. Like he l-l—what exactly? What was this sickness, this disease flowing thick through his veins? What was this exactly?

Draco was still asking himself that very question when he closed his eyes that night, the images he'd collected over the last twelve days, the memory of hundreds of Ginny Weasleys, playing back in his head.

13.

He hadn't forgotten the task at hand, moving aimlessly through the rows of books, pulling them from their shelves at random, hoping half-heartedly that one of them would hold the answer. He hadn't forgotten either the girl who was slowly trying to drive him insane. No. Who had succeeded in doing so. He was demented.

Possibly cursed, he added, unable to move when he saw that she had decided to spend her Saturday morning in the library too. Sitting at a table with that Mudblood Thomas. Draco watched the scene from a space in the shelves, dropping the book he used to make it when she kissed him—her boyfriend. It was a sweet kiss, one that left Thomas smiling contentedly, a shy kiss, threatened by the very real possibility of Madam Pince's rabid, unexpected appearance. A kiss that made Draco feel as though the shelf he clutched for support had toppled over, crushing him. For a moment, he imagined it was him she kissed. Startled by the sudden thought, his heart racing as though she had.

_No._

He crossed a line he didn't realize had been drawn. That should never have been drawn. Running a hand through his attractively unkempt hair, Draco tried to compose himself, struggling to remember the confident boy who stepped off the Hogwarts Express three months before. _He_ would be diligently working—tearing pages out of library books and forging Snape's signature to get into the Restricted Section, not dreaming about _her_, some dirty little blood traitor, a _Weasley_ of all things. She wouldn't merit a second glance. That Draco Malfoy would stare at her short skirt and tight shirt, sneer, and remind her of her family's inability to buy her proper clothes—not imagine pushing up said skirt and ripping off said shirt like this Draco Malfoy was doing now.

14.

Even alone in the Slytherin common room after everyone else had gone to bed, there was no escaping her. Draco paced around in front of the fire, desperately trying to think of way to cure himself of the disease that was Ginny Weasley. It didn't help that everything seemed to remind him of her. Like the fire raging in the grate before his eyes—the flames too familiar, so much like the vibrant red of her hair, waves of curling copper, glowing as though they had been set ablaze, so much like the fire that ignited in her dark brown eyes, a fire matched only by the heat of her touch. Or so Draco imagined…the warmth of her bare skin scorching against his, the delicious burn of her searing kiss, a fire he now felt all over.

15.

The lack of self-restraint he displayed at every meal never failed to appall him. Draco only hoped that no one else noticed. One of these damned days, though, he was sure someone would. It was a wonder she hadn't noted his staring, the hungry looks that should have been directed at his potatoes. It was well worth the risk, but Draco still cursed himself for looking up. When she stood suddenly and walked from the Great Hall, he cursed himself even more for following her with his eyes. And then, with his legs, nearly stumbling with an uncharacteristic clumsiness as he strode after her.

It was one thing to have thoughts about Ginny Weasley, but another thing entirely to act upon them—which was what Draco supposed he was doing now. He wasn't sure of anything much anymore—just that he was demented (a well-established truth at this point). And that she was within his reach. Really, he could grab her hand if he wanted. For a second, Draco was afraid that he would when the sound ofthe first bell made him stop in his tracks, leaving him to wonder what might've happened if it hadn't rang.

16.

Thinking of it all left him feeling on edge. Figuratively, of course. Perhaps literally. All of these feelings, truth be told, were what brought him here to the Astronomy Tower, leaning against the ramparts. It was the only place he could think, after all. Since the moment he stepped into the biting cold air, however, Draco found that he didn't want to think. Or feel. But jump, maybe, right over the battlements. It was the strangest thing, though…Draco already felt as though he were falling—a feeling that had nothing to do with the black tattoo on his arm, or with the task that came branded with it, but a girl he knew nothing about.

17.

That he wanted to know everything about…every inch of her body, inside—Draco smirked—and out…every thought in her mind…every word spoken and unspoken on her lips…every beat of her heart.

_Oh gods._

He wanted Ginny Weasley.

18.

And he wanted—no, he _needed_ to stop. Draco had always prided himself on being a good liar, and for an entire day he believed it. That he didn't want to want Ginny Weasley. Reaching for his pumpkin juice at dinner, however, he lifted his eyes, nearly knocking over his goblet when he found hers staring back. Brown eyes that had been the cause of the chaos otherwise known as the past eighteen days of his life. Brown eyes that were now also the cause of a strange calm that settled over Draco as he glanced back at them. Brown eyes that still pierced him long after they had looked away.

_No._

He didn't want to stop.

19.

He wanted Ginny Weasley. Draco Malfoy wanted Ginny Weasley. . A fact he'd been denying, Draco suspected, for the last two weeks. The conclusion came to him with a pain he couldn't explain, a pain different from the disgust he would have welcomed. Different from the revulsion and self-loathing…_that_ he had been expecting, not this-this agony. Not at all.

20.

And then, of course, there was still the matter of _how_ this happened, how with his staunch upbringing and impeccable taste he could have ever sunk so low as to moon after the youngest Weasley. How Draco could have ever felt this way about anyone was beyond him.

21.

As was his aching desire to gaze into her eyes again. This morning he stared unabashedly at the girl, silently daring her to turn her head, finding Harry Potter's narrowed-eyed glance instead. It was effective in doing the one thing Draco hadn't yet managed and realize the full extent of his insanity. For the first time in twenty-one days, Draco was able to think with relative clarity as he remembered just who the hell had become the object of his obsession.

Ginny Weasley. The younger sister of the best friend of his arch nemesis, the best friend who was, by extension, also his arch nemesis, which would technically, Draco reasoned, make his younger sister his arch nemesis as well. A status only justified by the Dark Mark burned on his left forearm. Even if she could look beyond the ugly black tattoo, it didn't change the fact that he was fighting for the other side. The wrong side.

22.

Recovering slightly from the horrible dose of reality he remembered the next morning just who the hell _he_ was. Draco fucking Malfoy. Who did what he wanted whenever he wanted. And Draco Malfoy wanted Ginny Weasley. So he didn't hesitate to follow her again this morning when she got up from the Gryffindor table, smoothing his hair back and straightening his tie as he walked.

She stopped in the middle of the entrance hall, turning to admire the beautifully decorated Christmas trees lining the corridor.

His heart pounding with every step closer to her, Draco opened his mouth to get her attention—

"Ginny!" Whose boyfriend beat him to it, that Mudblood Thomas appearing suddenly at the castle's entrance. He could do nothing now but stand (hidden from view by a magnificent fir) and eavesdrop shamelessly on the exchange that followed.

"Talk to me, Ginny."

"There's nothing to discuss, Dean." Draco could imagine her glowering at her boyfriend, with one hand on her hip. The image pleased him. "You made yourself pretty clear last night."

"Look, Ginny…what I said about you…" Merlin, Dean Thomas was a bigger idiot than he'd originally thought. "You know I didn't mean it, Gin." Draco picked at the chains of popcorn snaking around the tree, annoyed.

"I'm really sorry, love. It was a stupid thing to say—I was being a prat." He could believe that. Easily.

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"No…but it's Christmastime, and I'd hate for you to go home angry at me. Please, Gin, forgive me."

"You're lucky I like you, Dean." the Weasley girl said finally, with a sigh. "You don't want to know what I'd have done to you if I didn't."

"Oh, I can imagine." And Draco could do better than that, remembering her Bat Bogey Hex with a grimace.

"So are you still planning on taking me to Slughorn's party?"

The inexplicable pain Draco had been feeling for days returned with an intensity that almost made him cry out. He could hear the smile in Ginny's voice as she replied, "Not if you have anything better to do."

The sight of them walking back together to the Great Hall hand-in-hand left Draco feeling oddly hollow inside.

23.

He never realized before this year that it was possible to awake feeling more tired than he had the night before. Careful to note his sleeping dorm mates, Draco rose quietly to dress, but found that there was no need to: he had fallen asleep in his uniform. Pausing only to pull on his robes, Draco walked from the common room, moving soundlessly through the dungeons. The entire castle, it seemed, was still asleep.

Not that it bothered him, as he wandered mindlessly, cramming his hands into his pockets as something to do. His fingers closed around the cool metal of a fake Galleon, the enchanted coin he had been using to contact Rosmerta. The necklace. Dumbledore. Right. Something to do. He hadn't forgotten the Dark Lord's request—half tempted, in fact, to waltz up to Dumbledore's office and AK the headmaster in his pajamas. And even if he did have it in him, Draco didn't know the passwords.

"There's still time." Draco reassured himself quietly, surprised to hear he had said it aloud. Still time with two days left in the term.

He didn't need to ask where these last weeks had gone.

She Who Must Not be Named. The Girl Who Lived—to make his life a living hell. Forcing her way into his thoughts like a skilled Legimens. Haunting his dreams like the Bloody Baron. Ginny Weasley smiling. Ginny Weasley laughing. Ginny Weasley not holding his hand. Ginny Weasley not kissing him.

Oh, the self loathing, too long overdue. Draco had never hated himself more. She was, after all, just some girl. Just some girl, he thought as he sat down at the Slytherin table for breakfast, chanting the phrase in his head like a mantra with every spoonful of porridge he ate for breakfast, with every scratch of his quill as he took notes in class, with every step toward the library after dinner.

"Just some girl," he murmured, trying to find his way through the maze of aisle in this labyrinth of books. "Just some girl." Just some—

"Malfoy…"

Draco froze at the sound of his name, turning to see it had come from the next aisle over, with whoever had said it standing on the other side of the shelves. He didn't have to listen hard to hear what they said next.

"Come on, why not?" Draco would know his arch nemesis's voice anywhere. His arch nemesis Harry Potter, that is.

"Look, Secrecy Sensors detect jinxes, curses and concealment charms, don't they? They're used to find Dark Magic and Dark objects." And that Mudblood Granger, whose voice he'd already heard enough of for one day. "They'd have picked up a powerful curse, like the one on that necklace, within seconds." Not exactly his greatest idea…he'd have to give her that. "But something that's been put in the wrong bottle wouldn't register." Potter interrupted with a comment Draco didn't catch, and he leaned closer into the bookcase, holding his breath.

"…so it would be down to Filch to realize it wasn't a cough potion, and he's not a very good wizard, I doubt he can tell one potion from—"

Granger stopped talking, but Draco had heard all he needed to, a new plan beginning to form in his mind.

_Yes._

No one could resist Rosmerta's oak-matured mead.

24.

Pleased with this sudden change of events, the rest of Draco's night was spent riding out the exhilarating high that came with his latest stroke of genius. Sure, there was a good chance that a bottle of poisoned mead would never reach Dumbledore's blackened, shriveled hands, but still…it was better than anything he might've accomplished with a broken Vanishing Cabinet.

A wave of exhaustion washed over Draco, but as tired as he was—very—he could not bring himself to sleep. Or even to close his eyes. He knew better now. Oh yes. He knew too well what—_who_—would be awaiting him if he did. And frankly, Draco was through with Ginny Weasley.

It would end today. Somehow.

She was nothing—

_Just some girl._

—but a maddeningly beautiful, infuriatingly wonderful distraction. This. Was. Nothing. And Draco would prove it today. Somehow.

Proving this newfound indifference was easier said than done. But then again, many things were. Draco exercised an extraordinary resolve, not glancing up once from the toast on his plate, staring intently at the slice of bread as though his next stroke of genius were hidden there in its crust. It wasn't. His next stroke of genius came from none other than that golden-eyed bastard Blaise, who was helping himself to some sausages.

"So you're going then?" Pansy demanded (always demanding, she was) suddenly.

"To Slughorn's party?" he asked, watching Pansy nod as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"What else?"

Blaise shrugged, reaching for the ketchup. "There'll be food."

Yes. Slughorn's party. She was going, wasn't she? With that Mudblood boyfriend of hers? He would just have to corner her along the way. Yes. Brilliant. Unable to fight the small smile that appeared on his face, he began to eat breakfast, enough to get him through the first half of the last day of classes.

The day could not have gone by any slower. Yet, _somehow_, Draco managed to survive it, all while resisting the urge to think of anything but Bubble Head Charms and Euphoria potions. Something he regretted as he returned to the Slytherin common room after dinner, the finer points of his so-called brilliant plan still unplotted. Draco's eyes flickered constantly to the clock that hung over the mantelpiece, growing more anxious by the minute, his heart pounding so hard in his chest it might've escaped when Blaise emerged suddenly from the boy's dormitory, looking sharp in a set of black dress robes.

"Time already?" Draco asked numbly.

"It's nearly eight o'clock, isn't it?"

He watched Blaise disappear, his expensive robes trailing behind him. Plan or no plan, Draco was going to do what needed to be done—whatever that was—as he slipped wordlessly from the common room.

Listening to the sound of his echoing footsteps, he wondered briefly what Ginny would say. Hell, what would _he_ say? Not that it mattered. She would probably ignore anything he'd have to say and tell him to go away…only not as politely. Draco felt warmth fill him at the thought. Or not—it was the fake Galleon, charmed to heat up with every new message. Fishing it out of his pocket, he stared at the two words engraved on its metal surface.

_It's ready._

Draco let out a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Feeling a great sense of relief, he tucked the coin away, expecting Ginny Weasley to come around the corner any second. He was met by Argus Filch instead.

Damn.

"What's this?" the man leered, seizing him by the arm. "Just thought you'd take a little nighttime stroll, eh?"

Draco pried himself out of the caretaker's grasp. "Take your hands off me—I'm late enough to the party!"

"Oh, invited to Slughorn's soiree, were you?"

"Of course!"

Filch bared his yellow teeth, his face illuminated unflatteringly by the light of the lantern in his left hand. "We'll just see about that!" he hissed, taking him by the ear and leading him down a flight of stair and towards the Slughorn's office. Draco cursed his luck, looking wildly around him for some means of escape. It was too late, though. Filch marched him right up to—

Draco groaned.

"Professor Slughorn," he wheezed, his bulging eyes maniacal in the room's red light. "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?"

Unable to stand it any longer, Draco pulled himself free of Filch's grip. "All right, I wasn't invited!" he admitted angrily. "I was trying to gate crash, happy?"

"No, I'm not!" said Filch, looking very happy indeed. Draco rolled his eyes, glancing around for a glimpse of red hair as the caretaker went on. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"

To Draco's surprise, however, Slughorn waved him off. "It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco."

He glanced up, his eyes locking onto Snape's.

Shit.

Behind them, Filch shuffled away, muttering darkly under his breath, the look of outraged disappointment evident on his face.

Quickly forcing a smile onto his own, Draco turned to thank Slughorn for his generosity, trying not to cringe when a voice rang out next to him.

"I'd like a word with you, Draco."

Fuck.

"Oh, now Severus," chided the new Potions master, hiccupping, "it's Christmas, don't be too hard—"

"I'm his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be," replied Snape curtly. "Follow me, Draco."

He had a feeling this had nothing to do with the party as Snape led him to the last classroom in the corridor, pulling the door shut after them.

Snape began at once: "With all this business—or the fiasco, I should say, with the cursed necklace, you cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled—"

"I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?" Was it really that obvious?

"I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish." He was right, of course. Draco winced inwardly, remembering the poisoned mead—probably not any better by Snape's standards. "Already you are suspected of having a hand in it."

"Who suspects me?" he asked angrily, although he had a fairly good idea who. "For the last time I didn't do it, okay?"

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"That Bell girl must've had an enemy no one knows about–don't look at me like that!" It was an unlikely theory, they both knew it. "I know what you're doing," he added, "I'm not stupid, and it won't work—I can stop you!"

His professor almost smiled, his lips twitching upwards. "Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see." he said quietly. "What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?"

Thoughts of a girl, whose touch, whose kiss he had been dreaming of for nearly a month. Draco faltered a little as some these thoughts returned to him in the dark of the empty classroom. "I'm not trying to conceal anything from _him_, I just don't want _you_ butting in!"

"Is that why you have been avoiding me this term?" Draco didn't answer. "You have feared my interference? You realize that had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco—"

He sneered. "So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" Draco moved across the room, staring out of the window, his arms folded.

"You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things." Snape called softly.

"You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!" he snapped over his shoulder.

Snape's black eyes narrowed. "Listen to me." he said, his voice dangerously low. "I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you."

Draco turned to look at the man, shocked.

"I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco—"

"Looks like you'll have to break it then," he said callously, "because I don't need protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would."

He had gotten sidetracked.

"What is your plan?"

"It's none of your business!"

"If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you—"

"I've got all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!"

Snape did smile scornfully at this. "You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes—"

"I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!" Draco retorted loudly. It was true—he'd seen little of his oldest friends in the last weeks because of it. Never mind that his 'wandering the corridors' had little to do with the Vanishing Cabinet on the seventh floor.

"Keep your voice down!" hissed Snape. "if your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their O.W.L.s this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at the pres—"

"What does it matter?" He laughed bitterly, looking at his shoes. "Defense Against the Dark Arts—it's all just a joke isn't it, an act?" For a moment, Draco wasn't sure if he was talking about class.

"It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!" said Snape. "Where do you think I would have been all these years if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle—"

"They're not the only one," Draco lied, looking up, "I've got other people on my side, better people!"

"Then why not confide in me, and I can—"

"I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!"

Snape shook his head, sneering, his voice cold, "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but—"

Draco had had enough of this, pushing past the former Potions Master. Wrenching the door open, he strode from the classroom, his blood boiling with a different kind of fire. What infuriated him the most, however, was that Snape was right.

He had lost sight of his priorities in the last three weeks. Draco knew that now. And he knew too that it was because of _her_. No. Not her. Because of _him_. He was to blame—he'd fallen for her, hadn't he?

Merlin, he was demented. Possibly—no, definitely cursed, he decided as he rounded the corner, freezing in his tracks, unable to believe his eyes.

She was there, of course. (Of course!) Ginny Weasley sitting against the wall, dressed in a gorgeous emerald green dress, with matching green robes in a pile at her feet, her hair coming out of its elegant twist, her shoes discarded in the middle of the hallway, her body shaking with what Draco knew instantly to be sobs.

And even, in her despair, she had never looked so-so beautiful—it was the first word that came to his mind. He'd forgotten all about her and his malformed plans. Ha. Like he could ever forget Ginny Weasley.

Draco cleared his throat. She looked up, her brown eyes glittering with tears, the look of astonishment on her face morphing instantly into one of rage. "Sod off, Malfoy!" she spat, struggling to her feet, with one hand on the wall for support. "What the hell are you doing here?

He didn't respond, his legs carrying him closer without his command. He could sense her alarm, the way her shoulders tensed as he moved closer, so close that he could reach out and touch the stray freckle on her mouth, just one in the corner of her upper lip.

"What are you doing?"

Really, he could touch her lips if he wanted.

_No._

He'd kiss them instead.

She seemed to realize this at the last moment, gasping as he leaned in, closing the distance between them, his eyes fluttering shut as he did. It was nothing like the heated kisses he had fantasized about, but it burned even so, her lips soft against his. It was a tender kiss, gentle, almost shy. Nothing like any kiss he'd ever given—or received, for that matter. Possibly sweeter than all of them combined.

_No._

Definitely sweeter.

He pulled away before she could have the chance to, determined not to look at her again as he walked on, still able to taste her on his lips.

Definitely sweeter.

25.

He didn't remember making it back to the dungeons or packing his suitcases or falling asleep in his robes, but Draco awoke having done all of these things. And more. He sat up in his bed, touching his lips instinctively, the memory alone of the previous night enough to make his heart race.

Suddenly restless, Draco threw back the covers, ripping open the curtains as he slipped from the dormitory, climbing endless flights of stairs until he reached the one he knew would lead him to the Astronomy tower.

It was the only place he could think, after all. And stepping up into the bitingly cold air—made even colder, if that was possible, by the little specks of white that drifted down from the sky—Draco found that he didn't want to do anything but think of that kiss. That kiss. It certainly wasn't nothing. And Ginny Weasley wasn't just some girl. When did he become such a terrible liar?

Not that it mattered. He wasn't sure of anything much anymore—just that he'd been out here a while. Through breakfast, Draco suspected, a fact soon confirmed by the crowds of people gathering on the grounds as they prepared to leave for the holidays, like black ants in the snow. He'd soon be one of them.

The last of them, Draco supposed, noting the empty corridors, the uncrowded staircases he began to descend. Or not. It was official: there was no escaping Ginny Weasley. That, or he was cursed.

Aware of how stupid he must've looked with snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes, the many more little specks of white, almost invisible against the blond of his hair—not beautiful as they had been on her. Not as beautiful as she was now standing at the bottom of the steps, even as she glared, her face flushed with anger. No. Fury.

Draco braced himself for the attack, and it came. Or rather, she did, charging up the flight of stairs and swooping at him like a hawk, one of her hands finding the side his face with a collision that left him staggering.

She stood back as if to admire her handiwork, astonishing him instead when she seized the front of his robes, crushing her lips to his. He welcomed it, closing his eyes as he pulled her close his arms circling her waist, unable to fight the shivers that ran down his spine as hers snaked around his neck. Draco didn't know how he possibly could have forgotten how soft her lips were. How sweet they tasted against his, like nutmeg and vanilla he never wanted to stop breathing in. Oh, and how it burned, such a delicious burn, her skin so hot, Draco soon forgot how cold he had been, her kiss even hotter as she moaned into his mouth. He took this as a cue to trace her bottom lip with his tongue, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it as she ran her fingers through his hair, as she allowed him entrance, their tongues meeting as their kiss deepened, searing like fire.

Draco was almost disappointed when she broke away, gasping for air, her chest heaving. The sight of his handiwork was enough to appease him, however, and Draco tried to memorize every curve of her thoroughly kissed lips, very red and swollen.

"Mistletoe." the girl said finally, weakly as she struggled to catch her breath.

He glanced up. Mistletoe indeed.

By the time Draco returned his attention to Ginny, she had taken her flight, bounding down the staircase two steps at a time. Leaning over the banister, he watched her go, her red hair flying. It was strange…he, too, felt like flying.


End file.
